


Sleeping Soldier

by zeldadragondraco



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, F/M, First Time, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Loss of Virginity, Reader-Insert, Sex, Short & Sweet, Virgin Reader, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:05:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadragondraco/pseuds/zeldadragondraco
Summary: An injured soldier somehow finds himself being cared for by a foreign family.





	Sleeping Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after Bucky is experimented on by Zola but before his tragic fall in the snow. I’d say it’s during the time he and Steve(and the rest of the rescued troops) were hunting down and annihilating Hydra bases. I assume that went down for months.

He was asleep again.  
  
You set your book down on the table and looked to the bed, where he lay. Darkness covered the window in the small room. Beyond it, there was crisp winter air, fields of snow and ice, and rocky summits rising into a moonless sky. The only light came from his bedside lamp, which cast an amber glow onto his handsome face. You could sit here for hours—all night, if you dared, gazing at him.  
  
Your soldier.  


Well, maybe you shouldn’t call him that. After all, you didn’t really know him. He was a stranger.

  
Sometimes he cried out in his sleep. Words you couldn’t understand, not completely at least. Some of the words sounded like names. At night they stabbed through your dreams and brought you to the doorway, where you watched him toss and mumble like he wanted to throw off the blankets and get back to his mission, whatever it was.

  
Slipping off the stool, you crept closer to his mattress. He lay on his back, mouth slightly open. The yellow tinted light washed away the pallor of his skin, the shadows under his eyes, made him look younger and healthier. And he did look healthier now that the hollows of his cheeks had filled out thanks to your Mother’s hearty  _suppen_.  
  
You straightened his pillow and pulled the red wool blanket closer to his chin. He might be cold, you reasoned, even though the fever was almost gone and he had stopped shaking. The ends of is dark hair tangled around his forehead stuck there due to perspiration. You should brush it for him. He smelled of soap and tea leaves. An herbaceous scent mixed with sweat. A manly smell.

You felt your stomach twist. Were you getting hungry?

Around your finger, you twisted a lock of your hair, one of few that escaped your braid. A habit you had whenever you came near him. Delicately, you stroked back a lock of hair from his forehead, as you often did while he slept.  
  
There was so much you wanted to know. So much to learn in so little time.

The memorable morning had happened nearly two weeks ago. You briefly wondered if you would ever forget it. Your eight-year-old brother had bounded into the cold valley, playing in the snow when he spotted an unconscious man.  
  
When your father was convinced that your brother wasn’t playing a joke, he had taken the family gun and gone off to investigate.  
  
He came back half an hour later with a dark-haired man slung over his shoulder, still unconscious and bleeding. Your father said he found him face-down in the snow outside a cave, gripping the barrel of a Thomson submachine gun, more dead than alive. He was not just a man, in fact, but an American soldier—declared by U.S insignia patch on his collar.

Your countries were at war with each other.  
  
Although ultimately it didn’t matter, your father stressed. “When you’re sick or wounded, you don’t have a side. You belong to everyone. We must help him.“   
  
And so he belonged to you, this mysterious stranger. No telling how he had come to be in the Harz Mountains, a little outside Lerbach, or what he was doing there. During those early days, nobody was sure if he would live. His breathing was shallow and laboured—you all feared it was tuberculosis—and whenever his eyes fluttered open, he was too feverish to speak or make any sense.  
  
Frightened for him, you hovered while your mother sponged his forehead and pressed poultices to his chest to rid his lungs of the infections. Anxious to be of some use and help, you would sing to him, lullabies you remembered from your childhood, ones you had sung to your little brother when he was a baby. You would have liked to hold his hands to comfort him as he shivered, but that would not have been proper.  
  
After nine days, he woke up. A wonderfully happy day for your mother and father, and yourself.  
  
At last, he had a name. Bucky. Well, he was really Sergeant James Barnes from the 107th Infantry Regiment unit of the U.S. Army. But he said you could call him Bucky.

When Bucky was lucid, he wanted to leave immediately, but your father insisted that he stay. Bucky had healed faster than your father had anticipated but he was still unwell. It was decided that as soon as Bucky was well enough to travel, your father would take him into town so that Bucky could contact the army and return to his unit, or go home. Back to America. He had been away for a long time, he said. He needed to get back. That was all you knew about his circumstances, all he would say, though you suspected that your father knew a little bit more.  
  
The communication barrier disheartened you. You didn’t speak English like your father or play chess like your brother. But you could spoon-feed him more  _suppen_ , hold a cup of tea to his lips, and read to him from your father’s small collection—poetry, romantic and historical pieces, even a few children’s books. He would listen, a small smile on his handsome face, and you would take care to animate your voice so that he would be transported to the worlds you wanted to share with him, even if he had no idea what you were saying. It was the least you could do. The best you could do.  
  
Yesterday, however, you wanted to make a larger effort.  
  
“Tell me more of you,” you said in painstaking English. “Do you have sister or brother?”  
  
“I have one sister,” he answered, speaking slowly. You were pleased he made an effort too. “Rebecca.” With a note of pride, he added, “I’m older.”  
  
“You miss?”  
  
He broke your gaze. “Yes.”  
  
You felt an ache in your heart. Did this sister know where he was? Did she know, you found yourself wondering, that Bucky was even alive?  
  
War was a terrible thing and no one could argue that with you. You’ve heard the stories from your father, and his friends. Then again, what did you know? What did a young mountain woman who had left school years ago, who spent her days tending her father’s yaks and would probably end up marrying a dull boy from a neighboring village know?

What on Earth could you possibly know about how the world worked? Yet as despicable as war was, you felt a helpless gratitude for whatever chain of events had crossed your path with Bucky’s. As selfish as that sounded.  
  
You touched his forehead again. Was someone else waiting for him in America—a beautiful woman sleepless with worry who had no way of knowing that he slumbered on the floor of a white-washed stone bungalow at the bottom of a valley of the Harz mountains, while you knelt beside him and listened to his quiet, steady breaths?  
  
You missed his eyes when they were closed. He had the most beautiful eyes, cobalt blue, sometimes grey. Exquisitely shaped lips, too. His tiny cupid’s bow made you tingle.  
  
You could kiss it. If only you had the nerve.  
  
Just then Bucky stirred and the blanket slipped from his shoulder, exposing his neck and a triangle of skin where the grey flannel nightshirt hung open. Your palms itched. You twisted the lock of your hair tighter around your finger. The shirt—your father's—was too big for him. So baggy you could unbutton it without touching him. Easily.  
  
You wiped your hands on your dress. They left smudges on the flowing lavender material. Your prettiest dress. You made it yourself.  
  
You were right. The flannel fell away from his skin after you peeled back the blanket and went to work on the buttons. You had never seen a man’s body before (your father and your little brother didn’t count, of course).

The cluster of hairs around his navel pulled your eyes downward. His belly was almost concave. You decided you would eat less from now on so that there would be more for him. Even if it meant he would go home sooner.  
  
You followed the hairs to the waistband of his flannel trousers, to the loose knot that held them together. The trousers were just as baggy. Though, they not baggy enough to conceal the mound between his legs.  
  
Your heart pounded in your throat.  
  
You wanted to see him.  _It._  All of him. Your little brother and your parents were in bed and Bucky could leave any day. You might not get another chance. But what if—and this terrified you—what if he woke up? He could wake up right now. What would happen then? Would he be angry with you? Would there be trouble?  
  
You looked at his face. His eyes stayed shut. No change in his breathing.  
_  
Deep breath. One… two… three…_

Your hands trembled and your heart beat loud enough to raise the anxiety you felt, but you did it anyway. Untied the knot, slid the pants over the twin knobs of his hipbones, making sure your fingernails didn’t graze his skin. Should you close your eyes, too—make it a surprise?

No, you didn’t want to miss anything.  
  
Your stomach tingled again. It looked like a long, thick fleshy tube nestled beneath a patch of wiry dark hair that matched the hair on his head. Was he supposed to be so large? The only other time you had seen a boy’s private parts was when you bathed your little brother when he was very young (which also didn’t count).  
  
Heat started to spread, warming your face, your chest, your arms, gathering in the place where you touched yourself for the first time in a while, thinking of Bucky as you did (and before him, a certain handsome boy from school). Now that you had gone this far, you wanted to touch it. Just once, so you would know what it— _he_ —felt like.  
  
You brushed your forefinger against the tip.  
  
After a few seconds, it twitched and you snatched your hand away, breathing hard. Had it gotten bigger?

Where the courage came from, how you found yourself straddling him, you would never know. You perched yourself on him without touching him, your dress puddled around your waist and your hair was hanging on either side of your face, some strands touching his face. All you wanted to do was kiss those beautiful lips of his, so close to yours.  
  
_Would he mind?_  
  
A nudge on your inner thigh startled you, made you glance down. It was pointing right at you, and when you looked up again, shocked, all your breath left your body.  
  
Bucky’s eyes were wide open.  
  
Your heart rammed against your ribcage.  
  
His eyes gazed straight into yours, a jolting blue like lake water in spring, and you couldn’t look away, you couldn’t move.  
  
His hands moved at the periphery of your vision, you barely saw them, his left hand burrowing under your dress to your waist and his right hand pulling aside your panties, pressing down, down on the seam where your belly joined the top of your hip until you felt a push, felt your most sensitive flesh yielding around him. You gasped, your lungs full of air suddenly again.  
  
A shudder ran through Bucky’s body, but you barely registered it as pain suddenly flared through your core. It was immediate and searing.  
  
Tears stung your eyes and you felt your lower lip tremble. Your cheeks burned. For a mortifying moment, you feared you would cry and humiliate yourself.

Had you truly wanted this? With Bucky? You must have… after all, you undressed him. You stared at and touched it— _him_ —the part of his body that was now inside you.  
  
Laying a gentle hand on your cheek, he smiled at you with his whole face, like he did when you read to him.

Reassuring.

Affectionate.

 _Irresistible._  
  
Yes, you wanted this, and you returned his smile to let him know.  
  
Your eyes stayed locked together as he slid his hand under your dress again, under your ass, and lifted you up, pressed you forward, then lowered you. Pain jabbed at you each time he moved into you, even when he molded the small of your back to their movements. Yet he was being so gentle, you could sense it, you could see it. Maybe he knew you were pure, untouched—and that’s why he was handling you carefully. That thought made you melt and it gradually helped your hips loosen and they eased into a rhythm, the pain subsiding into a bearable ache, then a slow delighting friction that began to take your breath away.  
  
So this is what he was like… a corner of your mind had closed itself off, had resisted melting, so that it could record every touch, every smell, ensuring that later you would be able to conjure up the soap-herbaceous scent of his skin, the heat of his breath on your face and the rugged feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, the precise moment his smile contorted into a gasp, a groan, a  _growl_. You admired the tendons in his neck straining like cords as he draped your dress over your shoulders and craned his head to kiss and nip your naked breasts, exciting your nipples into hard buds with his tongue, as hard as the button of flesh between your legs where his thumb rubbed in a circular motion, a pattern too exact to be improvised.

He knew what he was doing.  
  
You were losing the ability to stay quiet. You wanted to moan, plead him to never stop.  
  
The sudden change of pace surprised you. Mid-thrust he rolled you both over so that you lay face to face—for an instant your noses touched, contact unbroken—then he scooped a strong arm around your waist and pulled you onto your hands and knees, dug his fingers into the curve of your ass cheeks to steady you.

The pain resurged as he entered you from behind, lessening when he reached between your legs to that place only you had touched before.  
  
_Yes. More. Please. Yes. Yes. Yes._  
  
The sounds you made were strange to your ears, eager high-pitched whimpers, coming from the back of your throat. What was happening to you?

 _Be quiet_ , you told yourself.  
  
Bucky made more sounds, too, hungry grunting sounds as his lips dipped to your neck, your earlobes, the base of your spine. His movements took on urgency, and you felt the same urgency seeping through your skin, your veins, like a heatwave, felt yourself opening a little wider from his thrusts. Squirming against him, you bucked your hips and clawed the blankets. The separate part of your mind briefly wondered what the the two of you must look like on the mattress, tangled in each other’s bodies, and interlocked like animals; each other’s shadows writhing on the wall in the dim light from the bedside lamp.  
  
_More._  
  
The last twinges of your pain faded, a pressure was now building, a hot tingling itch spurred by Bucky’s fingers rubbing and rubbing you in wet, slippery circles. He was nipping at your neck again. He was thrusting harder and making it difficult to be quiet. He was making you do and say so many new things. He was making you into someone new. Someone bold and light and pure, someone you wanted to be. Making you into a woman.  
  
One tilt of your head and you could see him out of the corner of your eye. He held his arm to your mouth. Just in time.  
  
You bit down on his arm, tasting sweat. Your breath stopped, your heart stopped. And then you were new—blindingly, achingly new—your muscles twisted and loose all at once as your body convulsed. The harder you bit, the more you unwound, and the more you had to swallow the cries pushing up your throat so that no one else would hear.  
  
Another wave started. Your knees gave out and you collapsed onto your side. Your eyes rolled up and through your lashes, you saw Bucky holding himself against your thigh, jaw clenching and eyes screwed shut like he was in agony as streams of white spurted onto your skin and the sigh you breathed out shook them both.  
  
Bucky groaned and flopped into a heap, all arms, and legs. His head sank to the pillow. His eyes closed. From his rapidly slowing breaths, you knew he was asleep.  
  
Time was already hurtling forward, dragging you out of the haze. How you would have loved to snuggle against his chest, hold him close to you until morning, but the separate part of your brain stepped in to take control.  
  
With the hem of your dress, you wiped a trickle of blood—your blood—from his inner thigh and mopped the wet patch above your knee. Then you pulled up his trousers, tied them, and buttoned his shirt, covered him carefully with the red blanket, and found your forgotten slippers.  
  
Bucky’s features had a new softness to them. His skin stretched less tightly around his jaw and cheekbones. His cheeks were flushed and there was a bit of sweat on his forehead. He looked content.  
  
Was he dreaming behind his eyelids? Dreaming about you?  
  
Crouching on your heels, you made up your mind and kissed him on the mouth. His lips parted, his tongue meeting yours, and your heart jumped when his eyes flickered open.  
  
Lightly he ran his hand along your cheek to your chin and then his eyelids dropped once again.

Staring at Bucky’s sleeping form in the dim-lit room, it was as if it never happened. The tender throb between your legs was your only proof that it did.  
  
You turned off the bedside lamp and tiptoed to the door.  
  
“Sleep well, mein soldat,” you whispered into the darkness.

* * *

Men came to your house two days later. Bucky knew them. One blonde man, in particular, hugged him very tightly. Bucky’s eyes had watered. He was going home.

Bucky said his goodbyes and thanked you and your family for everything.

Outside, Bucky held your face to his, foreheads touching. The warmth of his breath warmed your face. He kissed you slowly, deeply, for what you felt was all morning—as if he too wanted what you wanted. For him to stay. 

Without ceasing the kiss, Bucky carefully slipped something small in your hand—fabric, from the feel of it—and gently closed your fingers around it. 

Curious, you broke the kiss to see but a large hand captured and lifted your face once more. 

Serene blue eyes halted your movement.

Bucky lifted your balled fist up to his mouth to which he placed a delicate kiss on your fingers—the action causing a familiar tingle.

You wanted to say something. But you were torn between bidding him farewell and asking him to stay. 

A holler of his name broke your reverie. 

Bucky’s jaw tightened and you heard him swallow.

Did he also have things he wished to say?

His hands lingered for a half a second more before he let you go and left without another word and without looking back.

You lift your hand to finally see what was in your palm.

Bucky had given you his U.S insignia patch.

Clutching the gift to your chest, you watched Bucky and his party walking in the fields of snow and ice. You watched as they walked further and further away until they were a tiny speck and disappeared before your eyes.

 

You never heard of or saw Bucky after that. As silently as he appeared in your life, he had gone.

Sometimes you dream of blue eyes. Eyes as blue as the ocean, uncertain but so full of life. You dream of the blue hues carrying Bucky’s emotional currents, so deep sometimes you feel yourself drown in them.

You’ll never forget your winter soldier.


End file.
